He shakes his head. “No, no. Don’t bother.” He rubs his chin in thought. “He won’t touch it. Not this last-minute. Whatever he needs to discuss, it’s too urgent for food or drinks.”
“I saw your brother at the bar after you left,” I blurt, needing to get the truth off my chest. “I won’t say more than that. I promised him I wouldn’t and I’m not going to break that promise, but I have a feeling it has something to do with that.”
“That’s on the other side of town, why would he be there?”
“You’ll have to ask him. I can’t break his trust like that. Honestly, me telling you I saw him broke some of it anyway. He…hedidn’t look great, Winston. I’ll say that much. I don’t know what happened. He wouldn’t say. I’m worried about him. You should be too.”
The elevator doors ding, the sound causing me to stand from my chair. Winston spins around, and his father steps out of the elevator, a wooden cane in his left hand to help him walk. He’s wearing a long black leather trench coat that’s covered in droplets of water from the storm outside. Wyatt’s hair is soaked and he slicks his hair back, up and out of his face, water pouring from his chin.
If they came all this way in such a severe thunderstorm, whatever it is must be very important.
Wyatt looks rough. From here, I can sense his heartbreak still. His eyes are dull and a bit lifeless, yet full of anxiety and sadness. Sleepless nights have darkened the orbital area and there’s even a tinge of red, as if he’s been crying.
This is unlike Wyatt. He’s so fun-loving, the one to always tell a joke, the one to always laugh and make light of a heavy situation. He’s usually the sunshine to Winston’s gray clouds. It’s odd to see the roles reversed.
“Dad, what’s going on? Wyatt? What the hell happened? Who died? Oh my god, is it Mom? Is Mom okay? Waylon?” Winston panics, fear making his voice tremble at the thought of losing the only family he’s ever really had.
I know my boss is adopted, and the way he cares and loves his family is shown every single day. Every day at noon according to the schedule, he calls his mother. Their conversations are always short. He’s always checking in, always saying how much he lovesher, always asking if she needs anything. He’s a good son and a good brother.
“We need to talk in private.” His father’s eyes cut to me, an untrusting glint in his eyes.
“No,” Wyatt interrupts, placing his hand on his dad’s shoulder. “She’s good. We can trust her.”
“Everyone’s okay,” Winston’s father starts. “Everyone is safe. I promise. No one has—” He stops himself, eyes sliding to Wyatt. “No one in the family has died.”
I’m not the only one who catches Winston Sr.’s near slip.
Winston takes a deep breath. “Okay, let’s go to my office. Let’s talk about what’s going on. Olivia? Clear my schedule for the day.”
“Yes, Dr.—”
His father holds up a wrinkled hand. “Nonsense. No need to clear the entire day. This shouldn’t take longer than an hour.”
Wyatt casts his gaze to the floor, a sudden look of shame crossing his face.
“Would you like anything? I can make tea to warm you up after being rained on,” I offer, wanting to ease Wyatt’s stress in some way—in any way.
“That sounds lovely, dear,” Winston Sr. garbles, his voice rough with age. “Thank you. Make yourself one too. If my sons trust you, then I do too. You might as well come in and hear everything. I’m assuming Winston would tell you, anyway.”
“He wouldn’t share if it was private,” I clarify.
I don’t want his dad to think I know all the family secrets. I know some, but I know I don’t know all. I consider Winston my friend, but I know at the end of the day, this man is my boss. I’d never abuse his trust. Not intentionally.
“I’ll be right in. It will only be a few minutes. Can I get you a towel while we wait? You guys are soaked. Maybe some scrubs, since your clothes are drenched?”
“No, no. The tea is fine, thank you, dear.” Winston Sr. is on the move, his cane lightly thumping against the ground as he walks to his son’s office.
Wyatt stops in front of my desk. “You told Winston, didn’t you?”
I gesture with my eyes for him to follow me to the kitchen. Wyatt’s shoes squish with every step. Taking a quick left down the hall, we enter the small kitchenette area. It isn’t warm or welcoming. The room is cold and sterile like the majority of the hospital. The walls are painted an off-white—hopefully it’s off-white and not just years of not being cleaned. The fridge is small and makes a constant buzzing sound that plucks away at my nerves. To the right is a small table fit to seat three people, and there are four mugs hanging above the sink.
It’s simple and gives us what we need to make it through the day.
I fill the kettle with enough water for all of us, then flip it on to heat.
The counter pushes against my back when I lean against it. “I didn’t tell him everything. When your father was on your way up, I did say I saw you at the bar. I thought that was only fair. I didn’t feel comfortable knowing something he didn’t, but I shouldn’t have said anything?—”
“Don’t do that. It’s okay. I shouldn’t have asked you not to tell him. That’s not fair. I didn’t want him to worry about me is all.”
